Texts from the Dead
by CreamLemon
Summary: Molly is the only person Sherlock can talk to...now that he's dead. Characters from season 3 mentioned, no real spoilers. Molly/Tom, Molly/Sherlock themes. Oneshot.


Texts from the Dead

A/N: That bitch Mary has spoiled John forever. Fortunately though, Molly has really proved herself this season.

* * *

Molly Hooper knew the only reason Sherlock let her into his plan was because he needed her knowledge of the morgue, but that was okay to be _needed_ by Sherlock for any reason at all was enough for her. A week later though, as a stranger's body was lowered into a grave bearing the name Sherlock Holmes, she wasn't sure if it was enough. She held a handkerchief soaked in onion juice up to her face, refreshing her tears. Damn Sherlock. She hated onion.

Next to her John put an arm around her, and she quickly stashed handkerchief back in her bag. The smell would give her away; he would need to know why. And she wasn't allowed to tell him. That was the worst part. She had this secret, this wonderful secret that filled her heart until her chest hurt. A secret that would take away John's pain, and the pain of so many others...and she wasn't allowed to say a word.

A week ago, a month a go, she would have been so proud to be Sherlock's confidant, to know he trusted her, even liked her. Well, she still didn't know if he liked her, but he did trust her. That was a lot. But it wasn't enough. Not any more.

After the funeral Molly parted from the rest of Sherlock's 'friends.' People that had loved him despite his eccentricities, who had loved him even when he didn't love them back. She took the tube home, wanting to be around people instead of alone in the back of a cab. Her phone chirped at her, signalling a text message. *His picture came up, one taken furtively in the lab when he was too engrossed a project to pay attention to her. Her hands shook unexpectedly when she opened it.

_Going away for a while. Thank you, Molly Hooper. SH_

She stared at the screen and this time real tears began to fall.

* * *

The next text came about a month later, unexpectedly, while she was doing an autopsy. Her phone was sitting nearby on the table and when she glanced at it she dropped her scalpel in surprise at his picture. It made a squelching sound as it stabbed into the cadaver. She peeled off her gloves with shaking hands.

_It's too hot in the desert. Tell me about London rain. SH_

She didn't reply back until hours later, alone in her apartment. Fresh from a hot shower and wrapped in a bathrobe, she sipped wine and carefully crafted a reply.

_London rain...feels cold on my face. It's a sweet, fresh cold. Very clean feeling (even though we both know it's not). The sky is gloomy, the streets are full of umbrellas. Red, yellow, blue, green. All the colors of the rainbow, even when there is none in the sky. Even when the sky is grey, you can always still see the rainbow._

She wasn't much of a writer. It took her a long time to say the short few sentences, and she held her breath as she hit 'send.'

He never replied.

* * *

Months and months later she had...not forgotten about Sherlock, but as she knew he was alive and well, off getting into the kind of trouble he liked best, she didn't need to think about him the way she had in the past. He didn't come to her with ridiculous requests to abuse corpses, or to commandeer her lab equipment without permission. She didn't forget him. But he no longer occupied her every thought.

She started being normal. An introvert to the core, Molly had never excelled at normal, but her cousin Val moved to town and Val was _very_ good at making friends, and good at bullying Molly into coming out with them.

"I've got a present for you," Val said one night in a sing-song voice.

Molly sat at the pub table poking at her drink. "Yeah? What sort of present?"

"Close your eyes," Val demanded, and with a sigh, Molly did. For a few moments nothing happened, but then Val was back. "Okay," she said, and when Molly opened her eyes she froze. The man standing before her was tall and skinny, yet his shirt was just a hair too small *they must shop at the same store she thought vaguely. His hair was curly, but a little bit ginger. Val didn't know anything about Molly's unrequited crush on Sherlock. It was a coincidence. Except Molly didn't believe in coincidence. The universe had given this to her for a reason.

"This is Tom," Val said. "He's all quite and mousy like you. You're perfect for each other."

He gave her a thin, shy smile. "Pleased to meet you," he said, not quite looking her in the eye. "Val's told me so much about you."

Well, he was better than nothing she supposed.

The next morning she picked up her clothes from Tom's floor and wondered what the hell she'd been thinking, inviting herself into his house, into his bed. She'd never been the aggressive one before. She kind of liked it.

This time the text came as she was dragging Tom into the shower with her. She didn't get a chance to read it until much later.

_I thought of you today_, it began, causing her heart to jump unexpectedly. _Yemen's mortuary facilities are severely lacking. SH_

She sighed and closed the message, pulling up Tom's number instead._ Let's have dinner_.

* * *

Christmas dinner with her family. They were running late and Tom started wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Not like that," she said, stopping him mid-wrap. "You have to wear your scarf special with that coat." She smoothed the dark wool over his chest. It was an expensive gift for a new boyfriend, but totally worth it. It looked fantastic. "Here. Let me fix it." She took his scarf and folded it in half, pulling the ends through the middle around his neck. Next she popped the collar of his coat. "You look very handsome," she said. He smiled at her, his puppy-dog eyes eating up the approval.

Sometimes she hated herself. In the cab she pulled up Sherlock's number. She'd never contacted him before, but her mind was lingering. _Happy Christmas_, she typed feeling a little sad.

A few minutes later she got a reply._ It's Christmas?_

* * *

Her new ring still felt strange on her finger, but there was some validation there too. She was good enough for someone to love her. She was good enough to deserve happiness. She took it off for work, keeping it in a little satchel in her pocket.

Wrist deep in a corpse, she none-the-less stopped what she was doing to answer the text from Sherlock. She frowned. It wasn't in English. Ready to drop what she was doing in favor of translating, Greg Lestrade knocked on the door.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt," he said. "I've got an important case, and I hate to queue." He held up a sample jar. "Can you check this for me?"

One solved murder later she was at home and googling "_magarac_" when another text came through. _Disregard previous message. Apologies for the Serbian...had to temporarily forget English to make space. SH_

She blinked in disbelief. Bloody Sherlock Holmes.

She didn't remember her engagement ring until the next night when she found it in her pocket doing laundry. Funny how Tom hadn't noticed either.

Almost two years had passed since Sherlock faked his death. In that time Molly had collected a little less than two dozen text messages from him. She was different now...so very different. She had a feeling he was too. She realized why he texted her so often. He was lonely. He was lonely and she was the only person from his old life he could reach out to. She didn't know if this made her happy, or sad, or angry.

The text came in the middle of dinner, and she was glad of the distraction. Tom was being absolutely insufferable in his inability to send back a poorly cooked meal, moping about the condition of his carrots and under-cooked chicken yet telling the waiter how delicious everything was. She almost hoped he would get salmonella.

_If you don't hear from me again, assume I am dead and mourn appropriately. Thank you again, Molly Hooper. SH_

She put down her phone. "What is it?" Tom asked.

"Oh, shut up, Tom."

* * *

Tom regrettably didn't get salmonella.

And a month later, Sherlock came home.


End file.
